


Letters to Bucky Barnes

by bvckybarnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dialect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Letters, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 02:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10504491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bvckybarnes/pseuds/bvckybarnes
Summary: A series of letters from one Brooklyn boy to the other, unbeknownst that the recipient was far closer than he ever expected.Or, Steve Rogers missed Bucky Barnes from the moment he slipped just out of his reach and fell from the train. He copes in a way that doesn’t bring attention to the ever blossoming grief in his chest; he writes letters.





	

_October 3 rd, 1944_

_Dear Bucky,_

_They say you don’t realize the worth of something until you lose it._

_It can be possessions. A stupid example comes to mind, see; remember when Becca spent all those hours working for that dress? The flowing one, all white and elegant, the one she said she’d dance the night away in? She never wore it. Never even mentioned it again until the neighbor’s dog got in and shredded it. I’ve never seen such pain over a piece of cloth but it stuck in my head that she forgot that what she had, was once all she strove to have._

_It can be people, too; important people who bury themselves deep in your heart, the kind of person who deserves our gratitude the most. We don’t realize just how goddamn vital these people are for our lives, sometimes, and more often than not, we don’t see how often they were the big things that made your life worth living – not until it’s too late, anyway._

_The thing is, Bucky, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but I’ll argue it until I’m cold and hard in my goddamn grave that it wasn’t like that with you. Not for a minute, not for a damn second, did I question your worth, did I underestimate your brilliance, did I hold back on just how grateful I was of you. I always knew just how lucky I was to have a Bucky Barnes in my life. Not many people get to have what we ~~have~~ had. _

_You know, you had my back every step of the way, Bucky. From schoolyard fights, to dingy alleyways; from burying Ma, all the way up to helping me fight Nazis wearing skin suits. I remember it all, just so you know; I remember every split lip, every black eye, every time my ma had to ice your bruised knuckles because I’d been a punk who couldn’t back down. Every time you took a beating, every time you stood in for the verbal attacks I got…._

_I don’t think I can ever make up for that, for all you gave me; I tried so hard, you know? Tried to free you of my dependence so many times but you never gave up. When I got you out of that goddamn shit storm with Zola, I felt like I was finally of use to you; I didn’t need taking care of, I just wanted to help you. But I don’t know if it was enough._

_I’ll never know if it was enough._

_I watched you fall today, Buck, and all I can think… all I know, is that after all you did for me, after all the times you saved me ass, I failed to save you just one more time. The second time in your goddamn life you needed me, needed me to save you?_

_I didn’t._

_~~Love, your Stevie~~ _

_I’m sorry._

* * *

 The snow is heavy now.

The snowstorm started slowly; snowflakes fell softly, caressing the dark mountain’s earth on its descent to the tire-marked land below. It looked like a toy had been tugged apart at the seams, the insides left to drift down, slowly and elegantly, and settle in a glistening blanket below. But, then it thickened all at once, and now it thumps down in a heavy, constant assault, piling until the surface below, and the peaks above, are nothing but blank slates once again.

The snowflakes are enormous, glistening like dewy spider-webs as they spliced the air. Their brilliance is no match, however, for Bucky’s scorching skin, melting away in mere moments as his feverish body plummets towards the earth. The snowflakes feel like pins on his skin, the air around him pulsing like a hurricane, thin and harsh and he – he’s struggling to breathe now, the screams of ‘Steve’ becoming whimpers as his outstretched hand shadows the train before it disappears from view.

He takes one more laboured breath before his body goes limp.

The moment he wakes up, he begins screaming. Unbearable pain rips through his body; he can’t see, his eyes refusing to focus as the pain tears through his legs, his back and torso, his arms – his… he looks down and he sees the blood. Dark crimson stains the pure, white snow in puddles around his body.

His eyes roll into the back of his head and he returns to the numb darkness until movement tugs him back into the world of pain that is consciousness. He’s being dragged, and even through bleary eyes, he can see the trail of blood coming from the left side of his body. He tries to lift his arms, maybe to find something to stop the person dragging his limp body to god knows where, but somewhere between catching sight of the remains of his arm and the waves of increasing pain, darkness consumes him again.

* * *

 

  _October 10 th, 1944 _

_Dear Bucky,_

_I thought after losing Ma in ’36, loss would be easier. Thought I might know what to do, how to grieve, how to move on eventually._

_The thing is, I don’t want to pretend everything’s okay this time. I tried to be strong for you with Ma, Buck – but this time, I just want to scream. My lungs ache for it, and my heart honestly hasn’t felt the same since you fell. You aint here this time though, are you Buck? I hate to say it, hate to imagine your smug stupid face if you knew it, but I only got through ’36 because of you. It was hard, thought it’d be the hardest thing I’d ever do y’know? But I had you to hold me up Buck; you were my goddamn spine and maybe grieving woulda been easier a second time, but not without you._

_God knows I can say you’d want me to power through this. I know for one you’d want me to open up to Pegs – to anyone, really, and stop pretending I’m okay. I aint that strong though Buck, I never was and I sure as Hell never will be without you here anymore._

_It feels so wrong without you._

_Forgive me Buck; they aint kidding when they say a part of ya gets ripped out when you lose ~~someone you l~~ someone so close to you. It’s like this huge, gaping hole in my stomach; it just feels empty, aching for something. Sometimes it moves to my heart, though; hurts real bad those nights, usually when its cold out and my head aint letting your stupid mug stop haunting me. I thought I wanted it to go away, y’know, because it fucking hurts but I aint got nothing left of you but your goddamn tags and I aint ready to lose another piece of you. _

_What am I on about, huh? I’m turning into a drama queen without you, jerk._

_Hey, I got a letter the other day, from Becca. Asking how I am, saying how she’s doing; she’s looking at going to medical school, you know that Buck? ~~Course you don’t you shmuck, you’re gone.~~ She said she wants to be… to be like my Ma, and to stop people’s sons, brothers and husbands not coming home. She’s gonna do great, Buck, I can see her now, saving lives. Can’t help but think it’s how she’s tryna cope. She worries a lot about me, see, just like your ma in that respect (God rest her soul), but not enough about herself. _

_I love Becca like a sister ya know, but I don’t think I’ll see her again – not for a long time at least. Don’t think I could bare to see her sad eyes, or hear her voice wobble if we spoke about ya. Can’t forget she’s a spittin image of ya, too; think if I saw your eyes alone I’d break down. She aint you, though… aint nobody who is even close._

_I aint got nothing left without ya, and I’m reckless and foolish and God knows how many people I’d give my last breath for now, now there aint nothing holding me here._

_I aint got nothing left without ya._

* * *

Bucky thinks he knows where he is, and it isn’t good.

His head is foggy, though, so it’s hard to put all the pieces together. He’s not sure how long has passed; his skin is icy cold and he vaguely remembers being in a chamber so cold he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe even, then nothing until he came to on a table with a metal arm. He stared in horror, in pain, drowsy from the anaesthetics after he crushed the throat of one of his torturers with his new limb.

He knows he fell from that train, knows he should be dead, and be dead in the middle of nowhere at that. But, here he is, in an icy cold room, bound to a cold, metallic machine. His arms and legs are restrained, and his head is held still for what he assumes is good measure.

He’s been at the hands of these people before; he’s been poked and prodded and his veins have been filled with God knows what. He’s heard the thick German dialect, combined with the crazy octopus logos patched goddamn everywhere, and he could have sworn he heard a familiar voice outside his room moments before the Trainer comes in.

“What is your name?” The Trainer asks on the first day of Phase 1, staring at the newly attached metal limb and assessing the healing as he goes. He scrawls notes in his native tongue across and assessment sheet resting on a clipboard; _healing well, prosthesis bonding improving, control of moving fingers / hand increasing_.

Bucky stares, swallowing deeply as he fights the terror etched into his own features. His poker face was never impressive.

“Ya know what it is. I aint… I aint an idiot. Ya wouldn’ta picked me up off the floor if I wasn’t of use to ya.”

“You could make this so much easier for yourself, soldier. All you have to do is comply.” The German accent is thicker this time, and something clicks in Bucky’s brain as he narrows his eyes, squaring his shoulders the best he can whilst the leather straps pinned him to the surgery bed.

“I aint ever gonna speak, ya know. You might as well kill me now you great Nazi shmuck.” He sees the smirk pick up the corner of the trainer’s mouth, sees his eyes narrow and look back down at the clipboard in hand. “Ya can laugh all you want, aint nothin’ I do better than stubbornness.”

“Stubbornness will get you nowhere. You can fight. You can scream. But you will comply. How old are you?”

Silence.

Bucky doesn’t remember the plastic guard going in his mouth, or the metal on his scalp clamping a little tighter. The metal buzzes; Bucky convulses.

“How old are you?” The trainer smirks over him, watching as Bucky comes back to full consciousness with bleary eyes and a heaving chest. His voice is slurred and forced when he spits out the guard, and stares up at the trainer.

“What’s it matter to ya? I’m twenty-seven.” 

“Where were you born?” Bucky laughs drily.

“You can rot.”

The trainer moves towards him with another guard.

The metal buzzes.

* * *

 

“Your name?”

“Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.” He’s been babbling the same words for a few days now. Somewhere between the last session of HYDRA’s prided memory suppression machine, and the several rounds of being beaten until he was bruised, bloody, and barely breathing, his brain gave out. He couldn’t stop, looping the information around in his head and letting it slip through his lips while he laid, restrained in the dark, alone.

“How old are you?”

“Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”

“You will find it hard to fall back on something once it is burned from your brain. Now, how old are you Mr. Barnes?”

“Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.” The trainer smirks, plastic guard in hand, and advances on Bucky.

“As you wish.”

 _Buzz._  

* * *

_November 1 st, 1944_

_Dear Bucky,_

_There’s this one thought that hasn’t left me alone since you fell._

_Wherever ya go after life, ya was never meant to go there without me. It was never meant to be that way, not for us; we were meant to go together, you and me, Steve and Bucky, ass stubborn in life and death alike. I thought we’d be facing the fiery gates a Hell after what Sister Susanne said to us back in school. Aint so sure our petty crimes and fighting are the things that’d take us there now, though._

_What I’m sayin, what I’m tryna say anyway, is that I don’t wanna think you’re alone, wherever or whatever is after this shit we call life. I hope ya aint. Back in the day, when I was little and pale and so damn sickly, don’t think there was a damn second you’d leave me to even feel alone._

_If there’s something, ya know, something after life, I hope you haunt my ass for the rest of my damn life for letting ya down. Ya won’t though, ya great queen._

_Yours, Stevie._

* * *

 “Name?”

“James Barnes. Buch- James Buchanan.”

“How old are you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Twenty-six – wait twenty-seven.” He’s stumbling over his words now and it sets a panic in his stomach like no other. He’s grasping onto stupid things; memories of the cyclone, of cold nights in his place with Stevie, of his smile and eyes and the freckles on the mess that was his nose, broken one too many times. But, as the trainer stares him down, he realises he’s losing himself along the way.

“Where were you born?” Bucky shakes his head, brows furrowing.

“Brook- no, no, Indiana.”

_Bzzzzz._

* * *

_December 25 th, 1944_

_Dear Bucky,_

_1938 was a difficult year for us, wasn’t it Buck?  I knew it’d be hard from the very start see, in January ’38. We’d only been in our own place for a couple of months; you’d put down the cash for it over a year ago then, waiting for your Pa’s lease to end, so we could move somewhere you thought I’d get sick less in winter than your Pa’s place. The kid in the apartment above us died in the night, fever took him his Ma said. I aint afraid to say I cried like a big baby right then and there, broke down with Miss O'Donoghue and did my damnedest to make her life easier. And you? You thanked God it wasn’t me, mumbled it into my hair while I slouched over, all red eyed, puffy faced, and tear-stricken. And goddamn did I think you were a jerk right then and there. ~~I’d trade anyone for you~~ ~~I spend so much time twistin Pa’s rosary, beggin~~ ~~I just wish it wasn’t you~~ ~~would do anything for it not to be you~~ I get it, now._

_Do you remember what you did that year? After a whole damn year of saving, scrimping, and cutting meals (don’t think I didn’t notice, Buck; you could barely skip a meal without your stomach singing the song of its people) you woke me up on Christmas day with a present. We could barely afford to eat, the electricity was shaky at best, and my medical bills were hardly helping us along… and you still handed me a poorly wrapped parcel, sheepishly shrugging as you went with a smirk._

_Through the sickness and the grogginess of early morning, it was hard to fully process what was in my lap once I’d opened it. A leather bound sketchbook, full of beautifully untouched paper, so much more than the scraps I was used to._

_You probably never noticed how precious it was to me. I’ve only ever used it for the most beautiful things I see, you know. I’m picky! It’s funny, I haven’t drawn in it since you fell. Then again, art as hardly been my priority since then, Buck. When I try, everything seems wrong, like there’s a real dam between what I see in my brain and what comes out on the paper, and I don’t want something like that blemishing ~~our~~ ~~my~~ the sketchbook. It’d be wrong, wouldn’t it? It’s as much yours as it is mine, in my eyes. _

_I can’t put it into goddamn words how much I miss you. I’ve tried to throw myself headfirst into SSR work; Pegs told me it’s not healthy, what I’m doing, but it’s all I’ve got. Every time I think about it… every time it crosses my mind that maybe she’s right, maybe I need to stop and take time to grieve, I can hear you telling me to grow some._

_All the troops are back home with their folks, so even if I wanted to work today, there was no way in hell. I’m glad, in a way, because it means I get to write to you. But on the other hand, this is the first day since… since you fell, that I’ve had a second to myself, a second to stop and think and that’s dangerous._

_It hurts, Buck. This is the first Christmas without you since I was six._

_Merry Christmas._

_Love, your Stevie._

* * *

“Name.”

“I – no I don’t, please help me I don’t know… wait – wait please, wait!”

“Age.”

“Please – p-please stop, what’s happening? Why are you doing this?! Please!”

“Born?”

“Stev- Stevie. Stevie please, where is he? Who--”

_Bzzzzzz._

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically a test run for this fic. ive got the skeleton for this, just wanna know if itll be liked. 
> 
> i had to mess with the timeline a little for this to work; bucky fell at the end of 44 instead of near the beginning of 45 in this. a couple of days between their 'death's would have been too brief to fit what i needed.
> 
> hope ya enjoyed it.


End file.
